The River Dark

by Nicholas Bennett

  Then the inevitable happened and Dorothy's world changed.

  Her previous experiences with boys had been limited. She often dreamed of meeting her Prince Charming, someone to take her away from the humdrum routine of servitude. He didn't have to be rich either. As long as they were happy and independent, she wouldn't care. She would raise their children in a nice little house with flowers around the door and vegetables in the garden. Her Prince would keep them by virtue of his wits and adaptability. He was a handsome but- as of yet – faceless figure that strode in tall footsteps through her daydreams as she scrubbed at stubborn shirt collars by the dozen until the new boy had smiled at her.

  Ronald Bomford was the son of a landowner, sixteen years old and, at last, her Prince had a face…

  Dorothy had recently turned seventeen and had blossomed into a woman. Ronald's attentions were not the first she had received from the boys. She had ignored the stares and even the sly touches as she had walked through the corridors at class changeover, her arms laden with freshly pressed linen but Ronald was different. There was sensitivity about his brown eyes, a meaningful depth to his gaze. She felt his eyes on her as she had ladled out scrambled eggs at breakfast. She had flicked her eye lashes up to where he sat reclined on a chair, the morning sunlight shining through his fair hair. He smiled at her.

  Dorothy's mother had often said that you know the one when you first see him. In that moment, she knew that her mother was right because it was true. For the first time in her life, she was truly in love.

  Every moment of her day was alive with the tingling agony of the chance that she might see him and- when she did catch a glimpse of his fair hair over the heads of the others (for Prince Charming had indeed turned out to be tall) - her heart seemed to stop in her chest. She felt excited nausea at the very idea that he might speak to her. This had gone on for a seemingly interminable time until the morning when she turned away from the window ledge she had been dusting and he was there, so close she could smell the soap on his skin. He had looked at her with his earnest brown eyes and pressed a piece of paper into her hand. A time and a place.

  The place had been the orchards on the way down to the river. They had just talked that time and the next. The third meeting had ended with a kiss. She had surrendered her virginity to him at the sixth assignation, in the long grass beneath the trees of the orchard, the sound of the river in the near distance.

  The conversations meant more to her than the act of love. It was a big deal- the sex part – she was an innocent really. Her knowledge of the act had been limited to the snatches of lewd conversation between some of the married women that worked with her at the Grammar but their talk of love and the future was what made her heart leap in her chest.

  At first she had been guarded.

  She was not so innocent that she hadn't dismissed the idea of marrying someone like Ronnie. He was rich, his father was powerful; she was only a common girl that had left school at thirteen. Ronnie had a future of university and following in his father's footsteps; she would always be a working-class woman who would have to scrimp and save for the most ordinary treats, let alone pay the bills.

  But Ronnie didn't want any of that.

  He told her as they lay gazing at the sky through the meshed network of branches and twigs above their heads, how he hated his father and everything for which he stood and as soon as he had the opportunity, he would turn his back on his father and pursue his own path. The idea of living his life in a business suit, making decisions about the lives of the labourers and tenants, filled him with loathing as did his mother's constant preoccupation with society. But Ronnie would fulfill his dream. He would paint. His father dismissed his son's love of art as a fad- a woman's hobby- but he would show him that he was serious. They would move to Paris and live in an apartment looking out over the bohemian cafes and drink wine under the stars. Despite the fact that she had seen none of his artwork, Dorothy believed every word; if his paintings were anywhere near as convincing as the picture that he painted with his words, they would never have to worry. He would paint her too and immortalize her with his brush strokes. That was what the great artists did, he had told her. They painted the love of their lives over and over in an attempt to capture the essence of what it was that they loved.

  As Dorothy gave herself fully to Ronnie's dream, she gave up her body without the slightest hesitation. Their initial physical love had been awkward and hurried. As the weeks passed, the act would last longer; she learned how to languish in his touch and lost her initial inhibitions. There was no part of herself that she would not give.

  As she entered the orchard- their place- the familiar smell of the river and the music of the water cascading over the rocks of the weir filled her with rapture; it was as though upon entering this part of the town she entered another world, the outskirts of that fairy tale daydream world that had previously seemed so distant.

  He was waiting for her, leaning against their tree.

  Afterwards she realized that she had known even then that things had changed; the constant expectation of the early weeks that it would all end had been replaced by a fervent hope that it was real, not a pointless dream but, as she examined with a lover's eye his bowed head, one hand flat against the bark of their tree, the other over his lower face, the inevitability that it was bound to end returned with painful certainty.

  It wasn't her fault he told her. He could not meet her gaze. His eyes searched the grass, looked beyond her shoulder to the newly-erected railway bridge in the distance, anywhere but her face. It was father. He knew about her and it had to end.

  What about his painting? What about Paris? Their dream seemed absurd now as she spoke it aloud. She knew it was gone. Ronnie only shook his head and still would not meet her gaze. Her arguments had become more plaintive. You told me that you loved me. She thought of how shamelessly she had given him the only things she had to give- her innocence and her pride. Again he would not look at her. In a world in which all a girl had to give was herself to the man she loved, she had given it to this boy and all those words of love had meant nothing. Don't you love me anymore? He stammered something about it not being her fault. Why can't you look at me? She felt her anger rising, hot prickly fury over her face and upper body.

  “You used me didn't you?”

  Ronnie shook his head but she knew that it was true; a rich boy in a world where his class could take, buy, sell and discard at a whim. That was what he had done to her.

  All at once, her foolishness crushed her. How could she have been so stupid? Again, she told him that he had used her but with more anger now. No, he told her, he hadn't used her. He went on to tell her that he was sorry, he never meant to hurt her and she was a nice girl, she would soon find someone else-

  A nice girl? Dorothy blinked as though slapped. Someone else?

  That was when Dorothy realized beyond any doubt that he was lying. He had found someone else. She saw him with a lisping Little Miss. She saw them laughing about something uncontrollably. Laughing about her.

  Her rage lashed out before she even knew it was there. Her clenched fist connected with Ronnie's delicate chin and he went down far too easily. She heard and felt his head thud against the base of the tree trunk- their tree trunk- and saw his motionless form at her feet, his eyes staring blankly back at her.

  Her fury dissipated. She knelt next to Ronnie's motionless form and knew immediately that he was dead. You always know when you see him echoed a parody of her mother’s washer-woman wisdom. In a panic she lurched away from his body and ran through the orchard, Ronnie's vacant eyes fixed in her mind, her boots mashing the confetti blossom into the grass.

  She had almost reached the lane leading back to the town when she stopped. Think.

  Dorothy sat against a fence post, hidden from any passersby by the long grass.

  No-one had seen her. No-one knew that she came here. She had told no-one about her affair at Ronnie's insistence. Now she knew why. Only minu
tes before, she had skipped through this orchard, a young girl in love, thinking about her lover's soft brown eyes and now he was dead and she was a murderer.

  She vomited painfully into the weeds.

  Had Ronnie told anyone about her?

  She couldn't be sure.

  Before she had struck –killed, a hateful voice corrected- him, she would have been positively sure that Ronnie had told no-one of his sordid little meetings with her- a common servant girl that allowed him to do anything he wanted.

  The thought of their lovemaking made her stomach lurch again. She crawled away from the smell of her own vomit on all fours, wiped her hands on her dress and breathed hard and slowly.

  Think.

  Moments later, she found herself standing over Ronnie's inert figure again. It was strange; she felt nothing. It was as though someone else was at the helm, moving her arms and pulling Ronnie away from the tree. His body lolled over to the side revealing the back of his head. She expected to see blood but there was nothing. She had a vague thought about the fragility of life and began to pull Ronnie through the long grass. In places it was worn down where they had laid together, she realized. Her resolve wavered. She felt the panic return but closed the door to that remote place where the real Dorothy seemed to be cowering, waiting for the bad dream to end. She hauled Ronnie through the orchard, her wrists straining beneath his armpits. She could feel the damp warmth of his perspiration through his blazer. Again, the real Dorothy stirred deep from behind the protective layers of her psyche.

  It became easier as she eased Ronnie out of the weeds and on to the riverbank. The grass was shorter there. She brought him to rest at the water's edge and stood straight, her back aching, her breath coming in hitched sobs. And then, as though she had been doing this all of her life, she calmly searched along the bank for heavy stones. Soon, she was stuffing large pebbles, broken bricks and jagged pieces of masonry into Ronnie's garments; she filled his blazer pockets, his trouser pockets, lifted his shirt and placed flatter pebbles on his chest before pulling at his trouser waistband to fill his underpants with stones. She saw that Ronnie had died with an erection and dry heaved, having nothing left to expel. She carefully tucked his shirt into his trousers and pulled his belt as taut as she could. She stood back and looked at her lover. The stones and bricks giving his form a broken and misshapen aspect. As an after thought she tucked his trousers into his socks to prevent the heavy stones in his trousers from slipping out.

  Ronnie stared at the sky as though contemplating his beloved blues and greys for the last time.

  Dorothy knelt next to the motionless figure and closed her eyes. "I'm sorry," she muttered and opened her eyes again. She placed one hand on his hip, the other on his shoulder and pushed him over the edge of the bank. Ronnie slipped into the water with hardly a splash and began to sink immediately. Dorothy looked down into Ronnie's open eyes as he sank lower.

  It had begun to rain softly. Dorothy watched the droplets become heavier until she could no longer see Ronnie's outline in the water. She saw only her own reflection in the green waters and flinched guiltily as though she had been caught.

  Dorothy's hair and shoulders were soaked to the skin by the time she turned back towards the orchard and life.

  Ronnie's hopes and dreams began to edge towards the realm of the forgotten and the river flowed on as it always had, the conscience of the town, remembering everything.

  Chapter 4

  Evening. Measton.

  Eric Callaghan crouched in the shrubbery at the bottom of his former employer's garden at number 19, Greenfield's Avenue. There was movement from behind the blinds of Black's conservatory glass. There he is, the bastard, Eric thought with grim satisfaction. A light flicked on upstairs that signaled Mrs. Black's ablutions before turning in for the night.

  Eric waited. It wouldn't be long now.

  He took a handkerchief and wiped at his lips. It was a habit he'd developed along with his alcoholism but, as he hadn't had a drink for a week now, it was nothing more than that. A habit.

  He hadn't had a drink since the night he’d met Andrew Davies. In fact, he'd hardly left his house at all. He had wondered around from room to room as though he was looking for something but could no longer remember what it was that he sought; he was a ghost inhabiting the shell of his earlier life, the other presences long since moved on. There were still posters of teen idols on the walls of his daughter's rooms, forgotten and forlorn; they would both blush at the thought of such crushes now but he wouldn't know about that- he hardly saw them anymore- his wife had seen to that.

  Fucking bitch.

  Thoughts of Black and Susan ricocheted around his head seeming to gain impetus with the passage of each hour. He saw them in an ecstasy of positions, Susan partaking in acts that he would have never have dared to ask her to consider; his own fantasies were re-enacted by his wife and boss with relish; he could hear her whispered encouragements as she offered herself to Black's massive erection (an erection, of course, much larger than his own); her eyes narrowed with intoxication as she ran her tongue over him; draining a bottle of Jack Daniel's before using the bottle on herself while sucking greedily on-

  Where these thoughts came from, he did not know; he only knew, with total and utter conviction, that they were genuine.

  He saw himself slashing Black's throat while Susan watched in horror. He visualized the act of disposing of the body. The river would be as good a place as any.

  He had sat on his younger daughter's bed that afternoon trying to think clearly. He had never done anyone any harm. Only himself. And didn't he only have himself to blame? Was he so far gone down the road that he could not to see that it was all down to him really? He had let himself go; he had taken the love of his wife for granted-

  No, she had never valued him as a man. He saw her eyes looking at him across the room at his daughter's party. What was that? Pity? Shame? Embarrassment.

  It was scorn, Eric. What were you doing that was so wrong? Having a drink on your day off? She likes a bit of Jack Daniels herself doesn't she?

  Another image: Close up: the neck of the bottle pushed deep-

  Again the knife drawing a satisfying gash across Black's throat. The splosh of his body in the river.

  He studied the photograph next to his daughter's bed. All of them. The girls smiling from beneath each arm, Susan pressing her face against his and laughing. He remembered the day that it had been taken. The Cyclades. Three years before. They had hired quad bikes and gone up into the steep hills of Paros; Susan had Claire and he had Phillipa. They had reached the highest point of the island and he had put the camera on timer so they could all get in the picture. Normal times. Happy times. What the hell was he thinking about? Susan and Black. She wouldn't get in to all of that with another man, especially him. She had told him that if he could sort himself out they would come home. Just stop drinking.

  But she's fucking your boss, the voice reasoned with him. They’ve laughed at you all along.

  Black and Susan laughing in a sweaty tangle of bed clothes, before she-

  Fucking stop it!

  It's all in your head. He lay with his head on his daughter's pillow. His hands over his ears, his eyes tightly closed. What had Davies done to him? Hypnosis? Brainwashing?

  Davies had spoken at length about Callaghan's problems. Davies seemed to know everything: the true reasons behind his slow descent into alcoholism- a wife that didn't respect him, children that she had turned against him; the way that he had been driven to hitting his wife; how she had goaded him and criticized his manhood; how undervalued he felt in all aspects of his work- no respect from colleagues or students; the way that age could make you feel so unattractive- depression, drinking and eating unhealthily had led to his bloated appearance, his blotchy complexion; Davies knew that his wife had not allowed Callaghan to touch her for over three years; how he had resorted to pornography to satisfy his natural desire- was it his fault that his teenagers daughters had found
his videos and watched them with their friends (girls and boys that he taught)? The resulting humiliation at work- time off with an imaginary sickness to avoid the constant jibes from the likes of Sonny Ingles.

  "It all comes back to your wife, doesn't it, Eric?" A voice that was plausible and soothing; surely the voice of truth.

  "How do you know so much about my life?" Callaghan had wanted to know. Davies' slow, assured delivery reassured him; it was the first sympathy he had experienced- other than that to be found in a whisky bottle- in a very long time. It occurred to him that, under normal circumstances, he should feel offended or regard this man's observations as intrusive. Perhaps I'm hypnotized he thought vaguely. But everything he's said is true.

  "This town knows everything, Eric. You know that. You know how they talk."

  Davies had changed, Callaghan thought, he had developed a personality. The Andrew Davies he had barely spoken to at the high school had been shallow and vain, he had always thought, more interested in his six-pack than in anyone else's problems.